


Fit to Serve

by gentledusk



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Thracia 776
Genre: Dependency Issues, Other, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentledusk/pseuds/gentledusk
Summary: Reinhardt is not a great man, nor is he even a particularly good one.(Ficlet collection, based largely on FE5 with some Heroes thrown in.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Scattered stories collected from my blog. I have many thoughts about Reinhardt and how his actions (or lack of them) in FE5 can be interpreted, as well as what may have caused him to think and act this way.
> 
> None of the stories here are intended to be shippy, though they can be taken that way if you wish.

With both the state of the war and Olwen’s apparent defection weighing down his thoughts, the last thing he’d been expecting was to be dismissed from service by his own mistress. Were it anyone else giving the command, perhaps he would have protested—beseeched them for another chance to fulfill his duty, to demonstrate that he is truly worthy of the honoured position of serving her. But the order comes directly from the lips of Lady Ishtar herself, the words punching a hole in his chest like a lightning bolt through the heart.

_You are not needed anymore._

She doesn’t say those words, of course—above all, Lady Ishtar is a kind soul. Even in this moment, she tries her best to be reassuring, to impart upon him the urgency of his safety and the assuredness of her own. How there is no need to worry about her from this point on. How none of this is due to any fault of his own.

And yet, somehow he still feels like he’s failed.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

Her words hang heavy and cold between them, sinking into him like icicles stabbing at his skin despite his understanding of why she is doing this. It’s ungrateful, to feel as if he’s been cast out to sea, when she is only trying to protect him (and what kind of bodyguard must he be, to need such a thing?).

Lady Ishtar is more powerful than him. This is a fact. But despite how illogical it may be, knowing that he may no longer remain at her side to offer even the slightest of aid fills him with dread. This is war, after all. It’s naïve to think that even someone as strong as Lady Ishtar could never fall. It’s naïve to think that any one person (even— _especially_ —Lord Julius, and even himself) can ensure her safety. It is the height of arrogance to even think of defying her for his own selfish wishes. And yet…and yet…

His lips part, unsure of what he even wants to say, but the words turn to ash before they can even leave his mouth, drowned out by the incessant screaming of  _failure, failure, failure_  and the thundering of his own heart. He wants to kneel, or perhaps prostrate himself at her feet and beg for her to reconsider, but his feet are rooted to the ground, knees locked, body rigid and unmoving save for the fine tremor in the hands that he clenches into fists to prevent her from seeing the shameful weakness that plagues his entire being.  _Useless. Useless. Useless._

_Inhale. Exhale._

“As…as you say, Lady Ishtar,” he rasps, the words scraping like gravel out of his throat. He finally manages to sink down onto one knee, bowing to her for what might be the last time. He remains that way even after she leaves, there on the cold stone floor ignoring the numbness spreading throughout his whole body. It is only the eventual murmur of distant voices that jerks him from his stupor, wincing as his limbs cry out in protest at their sudden movement after holding their position for so long.

Tomorrow will bring a battle at the River Thracia with the Liberation Army that Olwen has been so taken with. Perhaps there, he can make amends for his inability to protect one of the most precious people in his life. Perhaps there, he can manage to draw his sister back to the side with a greater chance of victory. Then all will be, if not well, then at least better than things currently are. Olwen will be safe again. That will be enough. 

_Inhale. Exhale. Breathe in. Breathe out._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reinhardt is summoned to Askr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not intended to be shippy, but the line between deep devotion and love can get a little tangled with Reinhardt.

When Reinhardt awakens, he feels no pain. 

This is the first thing that cuts through the overwhelming haze in his mind. It’s strange, of course, because the last thing he remembers before losing consciousness is bleeding out on his—now Olwen’s—sword. He should be in excruciating agony. If anything, he shouldn’t even be alive. Or perhaps he isn’t, and this is the afterlife. Perhaps an even greater punishment is in store for him.

He opens his eyes. Smoke billows out from around his feet, and five lights as bright as stars flash in front of his eyes. Grey stone stretches out around him, and directly before him stands a hooded figure robed in white and gold, face obscured and with what appears to be a weapon pointed directly at his heart. 

Once, the sight would have caused him to leap into action, to whip his hand up with a spell on his lips or to dodge out of the way with a hand ready to draw his blade. Now, though…now, he simply blinks at the figure, arms hanging limply by his sides. If this is the afterlife…then nothing he does really matters, does it? And if this  _isn’t_  the afterlife…well, what does it matter if he’s killed? 

He went into that fateful battle knowing full well the effects of his decision. He went in knowing full well that his most precious sword was, ironically, practically tailor-made to kill him. He knew all this, giving it to his sister and asking her if she was ready to stand for her ideals. Whether she realized it too was another matter, but the deed was done. Or had been, before this. He has nothing left to live for—so what does it matter if someone wants to kill him again?

To his bewilderment, though, the figure lowers their weapon before jumping up and pumping a fist into the air. In the background, a blond girl claps her hands and jumps as well while two others further back look on. Meanwhile, the hooded figure, completely ignoring any possibility of danger, runs up to him and…grasps both of his hands in their own.

“Welcome!” they cry, pumping his hands up and down with apparent enthusiasm. “I’m so happy to see you!”

That is…odd, considering he’s quite sure they’ve never met before. The robe, of course, obscures much of their features, but their voice doesn’t sound at all familiar. The language they speak is not even the same, and yet somehow they can understand each other. Still, for them to be so overjoyed…

“Why…why is that?” he asks, too dazed to pay any mind to the heat of their palms.

“Because we really needed you!” they declare, oblivious to the way their words knock all the air from his lungs. “We’ve been having a bit of trouble lately, but now that you’re here I’m sure we can handle it! That is, um,” and here they pause, glancing down at the ground and finally releasing his hands from their grip. “That is, if you’re willing to help us. I’ll explain everything on the way back to the castle, I promise!”

“L…Lead the way, then,” he replies through suddenly dry lips, allowing the robed figure to take his hand and pull him away from the large stone monument he’d just noticed was behind him. 

They chatter excitedly as they introduce him to the others, one bubbly (Princess Sharena), one serious (Prince Alfonse), and one assessing (Commander Anna). He greets them politely enough, but most of his attention is fixed on the one who is, apparently, his “Summoner”. He listens to their explanations attentively on their journey back, but in his heart, he knows his mind is already made up. 

He owes the Summoner his life—not just for delivering him from that battlefield, but for giving him a direction, a purpose to strive towards once more. After all that has happened back in his homeland, for someone to be so happy to see him…for someone to so earnestly tell him that he is  _needed_ …well, it’s the least he can do to live up to their expectations. He owes them a debt that can never be repaid, even if he serves them for a lifetime.

“I will join your cause,” he says, and is knocked breathless again when the Summoner whoops and throws their arms around him. The last time he was embraced so freely was when Olwen was young, and he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs. He doesn’t know what to do with someone who accepts him so readily, who asks for his service without a care for his failings in the past. 

There’s an ache in his chest entirely unrelated to the sword that pierced it, an ache that only intensifies as the Summoner flashes him a brilliant smile and informs him that they will be depending on him from here on out. When they finally release him, he drops to one knee, the ghostly feeling of warmth lingering around his body as he swears fealty to his new master. 

This time, unlike the last, he will neither falter nor fail. For as long as they will have him…he will do his utmost to make sure that he is someone worthy of that trust.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reinhardt trains, and reaffirms to himself the reason why he's here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a warning in the tags, but for this chapter in particular: warning for contemplation of suicide.

It’s nighttime in Askr, bright moonlight streaming down onto the deserted training ground he finds himself in despite the late hour. Crisp, cool air fills his lungs as he inhales, carrying the scents of grass, wood, steel–even the singed remnants of Fire magic, if he breathes deep. Now, though, the place is deserted, though he suspects he is hardly the only warrior to have need of a moonlit respite. Perhaps he should count himself fortunate that he’s managed to secure this training ground all to himself.

Unclasping his cape, he shrugs off the fabric covering his upper body and folds it neatly, placing it on top of one of the stone benches by the side of the grounds. His hands raise to his collar, then hesitate, but–it’s just him here, isn’t it? There’s no one here to reprimand him about less-than-impeccable dress, to scold him for discarding the clothes of his station. Shaking his head at himself, he removes his coat as well, leaving him in a thin undershirt as he folds and deposits it on the bench. Goosebumps start to prickle on his arms in the faint breeze, but he pays it no mind, unsheathing his sword as he strides towards the centre of the field.

Swordplay has always come easily to him–as easily as Thunder magic, even since he was a child. Even with no opponent, the forms he goes through are like a dance, the comforting familiarity of them like an anchor no matter what world he’s in. He almost imagines he can hear the blade singing as it cuts through the air, as he guides it through the precise movements and practiced patterns he knows by heart.

Though this blade, Meisterschwert, may not be the Blessed Sword that was once so dear to him, it still acts as an extension of himself, just as he himself acts as an extension of his master’s will. He is the blade that they wield, and where they point him, he will strike. So it is, and so it has always been. Even here in Askr, where he’s bound himself to a new master–serving is something familiar to him. Comforting, even. And perhaps it is horrendous to feel  _grateful_  for something like a war, but…even so, he can’t help but feel it. For without the war, who knows if he would have been summoned here at all?

He holds his blade out in front of him, breath slightly quickened from the exertion as he stares at the silvery metal. Meisterschwert isn’t a common sword per se, but it’s certainly not one of a kind like the sword Lady Ishtar bestowed upon him all those years ago. The sword he had given away, of all things, pressed upon Olwen before it had been used to pierce his own body. The sword he holds now is not the one that Lady Ishtar had given him in acknowledgement of his service; it is not that precious blade he once cherished with all his heart. Still, the edge gleams in the moonlight, taunting him with its sharpness, the ease with which it could cut through his own flesh if he willed it.

His hand trembles. His breath comes faster, short and sharp and entirely too loud in the silence around him. He shakes his head forcibly, even though there is no one around to see and judge him for his weakness. He has a purpose again now. He has something– _someone_ –to live for. There is no longer any reason for him to crave the nothingness of death, the blessed lack of thoughts or feelings or responsibilities weighing upon his chest. He has a place here. He is useful. He is  _needed_. He will not let his new master down.

His breath leaves his lungs in a slow, steady stream, stiff arm finally lowering the sword to his side. Belatedly, he notices the return of the chill in his body, and he shivers as he wonders just how long he has been standing here, lost in his own head. He sheathes the blade without incident, flicking a glance up at the moon as if it will illuminate the correct path for him to take. As always, the sky is unhelpful in this regard, and his lips twist in a wry smile at his own foolishness.

One step forward, one more battle at a time. However long he has here…he will remain faithfully by his new master’s side as their blade, their shield, and whatever else they might need him to be. So it is. And so it has always been.


End file.
